Ribbons in the Brandywine
by Feagalad
Summary: Frodo's parents were 'drownded' - that is all we know about them. Here is the full account of what took place around the fateful boat ride so long ago.
1. Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:** This is the first part of a series that I have had stewing for some time It will chronicle the years of Frodo's life leading up to LotR and possibly beyond. I hope to take advantage of the clues Tolkien gave us in his manuscript.

**Disclaimer:** Last time I checked (which was a second ago) I still don't own LotR...if they're selling, though, be sure to let me know.

* * *

"Come here, little bunny." Primula Baggins nee Brandybuck gathered her son into a hug. "How's my birthday boy?" He giggled and tried to get away as his mother tickled him under the chin. She stopped and held him at arms length. "My, my, Frodo. How you have grown! How old are you again?"

Frodo drew himself up to his full height. "I'm twelve years old today, Mummy."

"That's right!" Drogo's baritone voice boomed as he swept his son off up for a hug of his own. "Our young Frodo is becoming quite the young gentlehobbit, aren't you?" He set Frodo back down and ruffled his hair fondly.

"Oh!" Primula let out a gasp, and then giggled when her husband looked at her in concern. "It's nothing, dears. I've nearly forgotten to take the cake out of the oven, that's all."

Drogo shared a wide-eyed look with Frodo as she hurried out of the room. "That's _all_?" He whispered in mock-horror. Frodo giggled as the two of them followed Primula into the kitchen, taking in lungful after lungful of sweet, vanilla-perfumed air and practically salivating at the sight of the cake that Primula was setting on the table.

"Your cousin Bilbo is coming today." Primula said as she double-checked the boiling potatoes.

Frodo's eyes lit up at the mention of his favorite cousin – the one who always brought lots of impressive presents and stories. Drogo chuckled. "If Bilbo is coming, we had better have lots of provender ready. Shall I send 'round to the butcher for another turkey?"

"You're a fine one to talk, Drogo Baggins!" Primula shot back playfully. "You know perfectly well that we spent those three extra months in Brandy Hall last spring with my father, just so you could enjoy the benefits of his table."

Clapping a hand to his brow and staggering melodramatically, Drogo looked horrified. "What! Me?"

Primula burst out laughing at her husband's antics. "Yes, you." She absently moved Frodo's fingers away from the icing bowl as she spoke.

"Glad to see you all so merry." A new voice broke through the laughter.

"Uncle Bilbo!" Frodo launched himself at the older hobbit, capturing him in a tight hug that reached as far around his middle as Frodo could manage.

"Hello, Frodo-lad." Said Bilbo, reaching down and ruffling his nephew's dark curls. "Happy Birthday." A peppermint stick was slipped into Frodo's hand and he sucked on it contentedly.

Primula noticed and sighed. "I do wish you wouldn't give him sweets before dinner, Bilbo. You'll spoil his appetite."

"Frodo, son of Drogo? Hardly likely." Bilbo snorted. "Besides – it's peppermint. It's wholesome. Could I peel those carrots for you, Primula?"

The hobbitess pushed back an errant curl and considered, holding her peeling knife in a manner most threatening. After a quick analysis of the different dishes and their state of completion, she nodded gratefully and passed the blade over to Bilbo. "If you would be so kind. And Drogo, love? Please check and see if the cake is cool enough to ice yet."

Bilbo exchanged a fond look with Drogo and set to work on the gleaming, freshly scrubbed carrots. It was moments like these – cozy, domestic moments – that made him wonder why he had never married and properly settled down. When he was younger he had occasionally wondered what it would be like to have a wife and children to share his smial with, but had never quite gotten around to the whole process of courtship. Now, of course, as he neared the age of eighty the prospect of marriage was not often in his mind. And yet, sometimes it was horribly lonely in Bag End with nothing but books and maps and the occasional grumpy wizard for company. There was a sharp jab in his knuckle that brought Bilbo out of his musings. Looking down, the hobbit stifled a rather blue Dwarvish curse and stuck his wounded knuckle in his mouth, making a mental note never to let the mind go on holiday while the body was wielding a knife.

"What is it, Bilbo?" Primula asked, stirring away at the gravy. "Are you all right?"

Removing the afflicted appendage from his mouth and speaking around the coppery taste of blood, Bilbo managed a mostly good-humored reply. "I think I mistook my finger for the last carrot." With his good hand he rummaged in his pocket. Drat! Gandalf would be having a field day. "Would you, by any chance, have a pocket handkerchief to spare?" He tried to avoid getting spots of blood on his new grey trousers.

"Oh dear." Primula handed the spoon over to her husband and grabbed Bilbo's hand to inspect the damage. "You've taken the skin right off the knuckle, I'm afraid. Just wait there – I'll fetch a bandage. No need to ruin a perfectly good handkerchief, after all." She sat Bilbo down at the table and bustled off in a whirl of skirts and curly hair, untying her apron as she went.

Drogo continued to stir the gravy thoughtfully, sneaking a glance at the bleeding finger as he did so. "You've certainly done a number on yourself there, Bilbo." He commented. "What happened?"

Bilbo shrugged and inspected the cut himself, noting that the blood was already beginning to clot. "No idea – my mind was off somewhere else." He looked in the direction of Primula's exit. "I don't know if I've ever said this but, Drogo – you've got yourself a treasure there."

"I know." Drogo smiled. "She's definitely my better half. I'm lucky to have her."

"Indeed."

Drogo made a quick check of the gravy's consistency before looking back at his cousin. "What about you, Bilbo? If you don't mind my prying - why did you never marry?"

"Oh," Bilbo shrugged. "Just never got around to it at first, then old Gandalf showed up and turned my life upside down. Dragons tend to put a damper on wedding plans, y'know."

"Nonsense." Primula chose that moment to come back in with some linen strips which she handed to Bilbo. "That whole dragon business was over forty years ago. Why couldn't you marry now?"

Bilbo snorted as he bound up his knuckle. "C'mon, Primula. Who would want me for a husband?"

"Plenty of ladies, Bilbo. You are, after all, nearly the most eligible bachelor with the most attractive, gold-filled hole." Drogo winked as he surrendered the gravy to the capable hands of his wife.

"Indeed, Bilbo. I'm sure you could find someone."

"A spinster or widow? I rather think all those left of my generation are rather less disposed to overlook my undesirable tendencies for belief in a mountain of gold." Bilbo scoffed, then grinned. "I am Mad Baggins, after all."

Drogo chuckled. "I suppose that might put a few people off."

"It does indeed. Still – it is frightfully useful when unwanted company comes around. Most seem to be half-afraid of me."

"Ah, what's life without a little excitement?" Drogo clapped Bilbo on the back and headed for the sitting room. "I'm going to check on Frodo, love." He said to Primula. "And I believe your cake is cooled by now."

"Thank you." Primula said distractedly as she removed a drumstick from the turkey. "Bilbo – if you think you can manage it without further injury to yourself – would you be so good as to ice that cake?"

"I think I can manage."

* * *

After the sumptuous dinner had been consumed and the empty dishes cleared away, the four hobbits retired to the sitting room for Frodo and Bilbo to give out their presents. Primula and Drogo did not require one from Frodo – but they had insisted that he find one for Bilbo. They firmly believed that there was no better time to start learning the traditions then when one is a child.

True to form, Frodo waited until the adults were seated and then shuffled over to Bilbo, handing him a small, brown-paper wrapped parcel.

"Why, Frodo," Bilbo said, appropriately surprised and delighted. "Is that for me?"

Frodo nodded and wriggled with anticipation as Bilbo tore the wrapping off, revealing a large, smooth stone painted blue with blotchy, whitish 'clouds' and a yellow blob that could pass as the sun. "Do you like it, Uncle Bilbo?" Frodo blurted, unable to contain himself as the older hobbit examined this present from all angles. "I painted it myself."

"Of course I like it, especially since it was made by you."

"Frodo thought that you could use the stone as a paperweight." Drogo explained.

"Sensible idea, Frodo-lad." Bilbo said approvingly and handed the younger hobbit a package that he instantly sat flat on the floor to open. Inside, Frodo found a little boat. It was carved out of the lightest, most beautiful wood Frodo and his parents had ever seen. The prow was shaped like a swan's head and the sail was made out of silken fabric that was the same silvery shade as the wood of the hull. There were even tiny, silver lanterns on the masthead and bows. Primula reached over and prodded Frodo with her foot.

"What do you say to Bilbo?"

Frodo opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked up into Bilbo's face and smiled. "Thank you." He whispered.

Bilbo grinned. "It is a copy of the ship that Earendil sailed to Valinor in. It came from Rivendell."

Drogo looked at Bilbo. "Been telling Frodo tales of the elves, eh?" Primula slipped out of the room and Bilbo made a mental note to give her his gift of a new velveteen shawl later.

"Yes. He seems to enjoy them." Bilbo looked at the little hobbit sitting on the floor, admiring his new ship. "Frodo had a bad dream one night when I was staying with you and I told him a story of the Blessed Realm to calm him." He passed a package to Drogo. "I hope this will be acceptable, sir. It was laid down by my father and is almost as old as I am."

"Old Winyards!" Drogo exclaimed in delight. "Bilbo – there's not much of this vintage left in the Shire. You shouldn't have."

"And what was I supposed to do – guzzle it all down myself?" Bilbo winked. "I may be a disreputable old bachelor, but I haven't yet reached that state of desperation."

At this point Primula interrupted them by reentering the room and announcing. "The cake is ready, Bilbo, would you care for some?"

"Of course, Primula. I wouldn't miss it for anything."


	2. Off to Buckland

Bilbo stayed all night – an offer that was _strongly_ given when Primula saw that he and Drogo had cracked open the Old Winyards. (It was almost as if she didn't trust them.) Both he and Drogo were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning, though, and Bilbo readied his walking stick for a quick jaunt around the hills and groves to prepare him for the day. Primula and Drogo were sitting in the kitchen when he came out and nodded good morning to him. Birds were singing in the morning sun through the open windows and there was the delicious smell of Primula's cooking in the air. "I suppose you'll all be off to Buckland before too much longer?" Bilbo said as he buttoned up his coat and winked good morning at Frodo.

"Yes." Primula said with a hard look in Drogo's direction. "We will be leaving in a week. I promised Da we'd come for his Harvest Feast and Drogo's been reminding me every morning for a fortnight."

"Have not!" Drogo protested from where he was correcting Frodo's grip on a fork.

Primula rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I wonder just how many children there are in this smial." She muttered. "Will you take some breakfast for the road, Bilbo? I hate to think of you going off on a walk without anything to eat."

Bilbo inhaled the scent of frying sausages appreciatively. "How could I say no? It would be entirely my loss to refuse."

Beaming, Primula made up a basket of muffins and sausages and filled a bottle with some cold, creamy milk – something Bilbo maintained one was never to old to drink. Smiling his thanks, the old hobbit made his way out of the door for his morning jaunt.

* * *

"Why don't you come to Buckland with us, Bilbo?" Drogo proposed over lunch. "We are only going for three weeks this time. You can afford to be away from Hobbiton for that long, surely. And you won't find a larger table then the one old Gorbadoc keeps."

"Well," Bilbo waffled, "I have not yet been extended a formal invitation, and I should hate to intrude."

"Cut the act, Bilbo." Drogo snorted. "You'd love to intrude – you know you would – and I just invited you, didn't I?"

Primula took a dainty sip of tea. "You implied it, dear."

"Eh." Drogo waved a hand. "Details."

"Can you come, Uncle Bilbo, please?" Frodo pleaded, mouth full of buttermilk biscuit.

"Don't speak with your mouth full, Frodo." Primula reprimanded. Frodo obligingly swallowed and promptly asked again.

"Please, Uncle Bilbo?"

Bilbo looked into those big brown eyes and smiled. "With a request like that, how could I refuse?" He said. "If you're quite sure, Drogo."

"It would be no trouble at all, Bilbo." Primula answered for her husband. "My father has dozens of spare rooms sitting empty in that smial of his and someone has to help Drogo eat the food."

"Then it is decided. I shall head back to Bag End this very afternoon and inform Hamfast of my extended absence. When should I return?"

"We will be leaving at daybreak on Thursday." Drogo said, taking a bite of tomato. "You'll probably want to be here Wednesday night."

"Then I shall be."

* * *

True to his word, Bilbo returned to the Baggins smial Wednesday night, handkerchiefs all packed and ready to go – and if he arrived just in time for supper, well, that was just a happy coincidence.

Early, early the next morning, Drogo brought a pony cart down to the smial where Primula and Bilbo were waiting with a very sleepy Frodo. They all loaded the luggage and themselves up and set out for Buckland.

It was a fine, crisp autumn morning. As the sun rose higher, the mist cleared away revealing a brilliant, sapphire sky dotted here and there with fluffy pure-white clouds. The sun was warm and the breeze cool and a lovelier day could not be imagined.

At noon, they stopped for a picnic lunch and Frodo hunted butterflies with his father. At least, Frodo hunted butterflies; Drogo was hunting something entirely different. When he returned to the blanket, he brought some deep purple asters that he had painstakingly woven into a wreath and placed on his wife's head with a kiss and a sappy "Sweets to the sweet," which earned him a good-natured swat. They packed up the picnic things and were on their way again. They arrived at Brandy Hall by supper and were greeted warmly by the many members of Primula's family.

"Prim, it's so good to see you." Rorimac gave his younger sister a warm kiss on the cheek and wrung the hands of both Drogo and Bilbo in a friendly fashion. "We'll get a room fixed up for you too, Mr. Baggins."

"Bilbo, please."

"Bilbo, then. Let me just go and find my wife and we'll get the matter settled."

After supper, Bilbo split ways with Drogo and Primula as he was shown to his room. Frodo wearily followed his parents to their suite – the early morning and exciting, activity-filled day getting to the young hobbit. Drogo noticed his son yawning and lifted him gently into his arms, carrying him into their room and laid him on the big bed.

Frodo had his own little room in this suite, of course, and this bed was intended for Drogo and Primula, but Drogo had a feeling that by morning it wouldn't be only his wife and himself in the bed. So, saving Frodo some walking, Drogo helped him into his nightclothes and placed him between Primula and himself.

After Primula fell asleep, Drogo sat for sometime, looking at his wife and son. They looked so much alike: thick, thick curls, fair skin, and the enormous brown eyes that were now closed in peaceful sleep. He truly felt that he was the luckiest hobbit in the world. He remembered his wedding day when he could scarcely believe that this beautiful, funny, wonderful hobbitess had chosen to accept _him_ as her husband. And now they had a son – their cherished Frodo who was such a blessing to them. There was a time when they had almost despaired of having any children, having been married for nearly three years before Primula became pregnant and nearly five before a child lived to be born. But now they had this little child who was so precious to them. He could be infuriating at times, it was true, but that did not make him any less loved by his parents. Drogo smiled and on that thought let his eyes drift shut.

* * *

When Primula awoke the next morning, she found Frodo and Drogo reading by the window together. She smiled at the sight and got out of bed. "Good morning, dearest." She said, addressing both husband and son.

Pausing in his reading, Drogo half-turned and grinned at her. "Hurry up or we'll be late for breakfast."

Primula swatted at him playfully as she pulled a petticoat on over her shift. "That's all you ever come here for, the food!"

Frodo giggled at this familiar theme in his parent's banter. Drogo acted offended, swallowing back his smile. "You can't deny that the food here is excellent. Almost as good as Cousin Bilbo's."

"I know, dear." Primula kissed him and did up her last lacing. "I am ready if you are."

Drogo set Frodo down, put his arm around Primula as she took Frodo's hand, and the family went down to the dining hall.

As they found a seat and sat down, Saradoc turned and greeted his aunt with a smile. "Hello, hello."

"Greetings, Sara." Said Drogo, cutting his toast in half. "How's the harvest this year?"

"Never better. The weather is wonderful too – have you seen the color of those leaves?"

"Gorgeous." Primula nodded, catching one of the eggs that was escaping Frodo's spoon and cutting it in half for him.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you last night. Did you make good time on your trip?"

"Very good time." Said Primula, shooting an amused look at Drogo. "Despite a long break for lunch, we got here by suppertime."

Drogo and Saradoc grinned at one another and at the joke that, by now, really should have been getting old, and concentrated on eating their breakfast. About an hour later, the morning meal ended and the hobbits drifted off in different directions. Primula and Drogo saw that Frodo was taken care of (Bilbo, it would seem, had promised to take him to the brook to float his new boat) before they went for a stroll in the garden.


	3. A Romantic Tragedy

**Author's Note:** This chapter was a wrench to write...literally. But I've slogged my way through it and I hope it is to par with what I've uploaded so far.

* * *

"Drogo-love." Primula said as they strolled among the fall flowers. "Are you having a good time?"

"You know the answer to that," teased Drogo lightly. "Of course I am. I'm surrounded by family, friends are all around, and you are with me. What could be better?"

Primula grinned as she responded to his teasing tone. "Family, friends, me, and _food_." She giggled at her husband's glare.

"I should think that you would be more concerned if I didn't eat." Drogo said. Really – she was being merciless today!

"I know, dear." Primula squeezed his hand. "You are absolutely right."

Drogo turned and took her in his arms. "Let's go out tonight."

"Out? Where?"

Drogo leaned in and kissed her. "Out on a boat ride, in the moonlight, just we two." He whispered.

Primula shivered in delight and anticipation. "That sounds lovely! Just like the night you proposed to me." She sighed, leaning into his embrace.

After a moment, they continued their walk in contented silence.

* * *

That night, just after supper, Drogo and Primula made ready to go out.

"I hate to trouble you, Bilbo." Primula said to the other hobbit who was helping Frodo with a puzzle as she searched for her favorite river pearl necklace (she had been wearing it the night of her engagement) and ran a brush through her hair. "Could you please look after Frodo for us again?"

"And where might you be going this time, Primula?" Bilbo retrieved the necklace from a trunk compartment and handed it to her.

"Out on the river with Drogo. It's been so long since we did something like this together. Please just keep an eye on Frodo while we're gone? We won't be back until well after his bedtime, I'm sure."

"Very well. I'll look after the young whipper-snapper." Bilbo smiled at his cousin, both by blood and by marriage. "You look lovely – best not to keep Drogo waiting."

"Of course." Primula snatched up her blue linen shawl and kissed Frodo on the head. "You be good, my dear." She said. "We'll see you at breakfast tomorrow."

Frodo, engrossed in finding the proper place for his puzzle piece, did not answer.

"Be careful that Drogo's weight doesn't swamp you." Bilbo called as she opened the door and went out – knowing full well that Drogo was waiting on the other side and would hear the comment. He was rewarded with a burst of laughter from the happy couple and smiled in satisfaction, sitting down beside his nephew to force that errant puzzle piece into submission.

Drogo, carrying a basket containing a bottle of wine and a few biscuits, made at once for the door. They left the light and noise of Brandy Hall, holding hands and laughing like tweens as they made in the direction of the Brandywine River.

* * *

The next morning, Bilbo Baggins was sitting in his study, dozing over a particularly interesting line of poetry, when there came a loud, frantic knock on the door. With a sigh, he marked his place in the book, got up and went to the door. Just as he was about to open it, the knocking rang out again. Harsh, frenzied, not even bothering to use the knocker – whoever it was just pounding away with their knuckles.

Bilbo opened the door and was met with the surprising sight of Saradoc's flushed face. "Hello, Sara." Bilbo said pleasantly. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, Mr. Baggins," gulped Saradoc, twisting the hem of his tunic in his hands. "There's been an accident, it would seem. Drogo and Primula are missing."

Bilbo took a step back as this registered. "Missing?" He echoed. "Are you sure?"

Saradoc nodded. "Quite sure. Frodo came running to Mum today, nearly scaring her half to death, asking where is parents were. The poor lad was quite upset to wake up to an empty suite."

There was a pang of guilt in Bilbo's chest. He should have stayed with Frodo all night. But right now there were missing persons to discover. "What has been done to locate them?"

"My mother and Frodo?"

"NO!" Bilbo took a deep, calming breath. "Primula and Drogo."

Saradoc ran a hand through his hair wearily. "Grandfather has half the Hall out searching the banks for them. We were hoping you would come and help us."

There was a sinking feeling in Bilbo's stomach. The fact that Primula and Drogo had not yet been found did not bode well. "Where is Frodo?"

"Back in his parent's room. Some of the ladies are looking after him, I have no doubt."

"Very well – let me just throw on my coat and I will join you."

* * *

"Have you found anything, Da?" Saradoc asked Rory as he and Bilbo came down to the dock.

Rory's face was pinched and white as he nodded. "We have. Deradoc and Darmac went around to the island. There they found the boat, overturned and scuttled on some rocks."

"So they're on the island?" Bilbo said, hanging on to every scrap of hope that he could.

That hope was fading swiftly as Rory shook his head wearily. "We've combed every inch of that island – they're not there. If we don't find something soon we're going to have to start dragging the river."

Oh_, Elbereth_. Bilbo closed his eyes in pain. They must be alive – they must. Surely Death would not be so cruel as to steal away two so vibrant of folk! "What can I do to help?"

* * *

It was nearly eleven-o-clock when they found the first body. Drogo was found half-washed-up on a muskrat lodge, face bruised and body mangled by the driving currents of the Brandywine. His eyes were open, staring up sightlessly at the blue sky, but he looked peaceful.

Overwhelmed with grief, Bilbo sank to the grass and took Drogo's hand as Saradoc and Rorimac turned away in respect. Bilbo remembered the young hobbit Drogo had been – the young hobbit that had been the most adventurous out of all of the Baggins family. Drogo had been the only one out of the new generation that had accepted the 'mad' family head for something other than his legendary mountain of gold.

Bilbo glanced down to his cousin's hand. Something was clenched within his stiffened grasp. Gently moving the frozen fingers, Bilbo manipulated the lifeless hand open, only to feel grief rise anew as he saw just what Drogo had held so tightly even as he died.

Hair ribbons. Deep blue hair ribbons edged in white. Hair ribbons that Bilbo had seen Primula painstakingly tie into her thick curls only the previous evening as she got herself all fixed up for her beloved husband.

Saradoc looked over Bilbo's shoulder and quickly assessed this new development. "Keep looking, everyone!" He called. "Primula's still out there somewhere."

Bilbo helped Rory haul Drogo the rest of the way out of the water and wrap him respectfully in a sheet. Then they went and joined the others who were spreading out over the bank, continuing the search.


	4. The Sting of Death

**Author's Note:** Ach! I spoke too soon...if I thought that the last chapter was a wrench to write, this one was ten times worse. But 'tis done now, thank fortune!

* * *

They hunted their way steadily down the bank, finding nothing. They passed the half-acre Oak Island where the boat had been found and it was at this point that Saradoc and Merimac stripped down to their trouser and made their way into the river to check the water around this island one last time, but to no avail. Despair began to spread its dark tendrils over the increasingly weary search party. The heavy stone of heartache grew heavier in Bilbo's very soul with every passing moment. He glared up at the bright autumn sun. How dare She shine so cheerfully down on so grievous a tragedy? Could She not see their pain? Did She not care that Drogo and Primula were dead; Primula still missing, perhaps lost forever, leaving their only son an orphan and…oh, Elbereth – _Frodo_!

Bilbo stopped dead as his legs suddenly gave way – unable to support the weight of his grief as he thought of his beloved nephew. How was he supposed to explain this? How does one tell a child that his parents aren't coming home? Even now Frodo was in their suite, no doubt waiting for Drogo to return and sweep him up in a hug, waiting for Primula's soft kiss. How _was_ he to break this terrible news and crush a child's world?

* * *

In Primula and Drogo's suite, Vadella Goold dozed by the warmth of a crackling fire. Having relieved her cousin of Frodo-watching-duty when the other threatened to break down into full-on tears, and being very partial to a hot cup of tea this time of afternoon, the elderly hobbitess found herself wandering in that misty corridor that lies between sleep and waking. The place where all sounds are somehow muted and amplified all at once and the limbs feel warm and heavy.

It was in this state of limbo, hovering on the brink of the precipice between true sleep and mere quietness that Vadella had slipped into as she stared into the dancing flames of the fire. She did not rouse when Frodo tired of his games and complained of being bored. She merely muttered a garbled platitude when the young hobbit wondered aloud what was taking his parents so long. She took no notice when Frodo's impatience won the day and he slipped out of the suite, letting the door latch close with an audible click.

* * *

Frodo Baggins trotted through the maze of corridors and passages that made up the enormous warren of Brandy Hall. He frowned to himself, confused by the strange atmosphere. Everything was so quiet! Brandy Hall was never this quiet – it always throbbed and hummed with the pulse of life. Something strange was going on, something horrible. Aunt Menegilda had been crying earlier as she smothered him in a tight embrace, sobbing something about 'poor, poor lad' and Frodo was determined to discover what that had been all about.

The passageways had never seemed so long and empty before, nor had they given off such a vibe of foreboding that even a twelve-year-old hobbit could pick up on it. Frodo begin to feel as though someone unfriendly, somewhere, was watching him – the back of his neck prickling as though strange eyes were trained on it. He shuddered, glancing over his shoulder once or twice and then berating himself for his foolishness. He was twelve! He wasn't a bairn anymore! _"Stop being stupid."_ Frodo thought to himself and continued his trek. He began to pass parlors and rooms where folk hung together in somber groups and whispered. He passed a group of tweens who stopped and gaped at him with wide-open mouths as though he was some sort of abnormality on display.

Frodo shuddered and scuttled away from them as quickly as he could. He needed to get outside – needed to get away from the bizarrely oppressive atmosphere of the Hall. After a few minutes of tugging on the heavy front door with no luck, Frodo did the most logical thing one could do in such a situation and found an alternate route. After a bit of casting about, he found the passage that led into the smaller main kitchen. His second cousin twice removed, Bernadoc, had shown him this place on their last visit. It was a handy spot to snatch a few biscuits or break into the candied nuts since, except at mealtimes, the room stood empty. It also had a door to the outside that Frodo was quite certain he would be able to open.

And he did. The door, which opened outwards, yielded to his pushing and let him out into the cool autumn air. It was late morning at this time and the sun was high and warm. Frodo raised his hands and danced a funny little circle jig, so glad was he to get outside. He ran around for a bit, first through the kitchen gardens and then on the front lawn itself before, tired out, he flopped down on the grass to rest.

He lay flat on his back – idly watching the clouds and dreaming up a story about a land where each cloud was an island and the patches of open sky were a beautiful lake where pirates roamed and buried fantastic treasure under a cross. He was just imagining what sort of creatures these pirates might be – and wondering if a bird could look sufficiently scoundrely – when a loud "Halloo!" carried on the wind made him sit bolt upright and look around him with his heart pounding in surprise. The call had been unexpected and startling, so deep was he in his fantasy realm, that being jolted back to reality in such a fashion gave him quite a shock.

Frodo wondered if maybe that was his father calling to him. He hadn't heard anything from or about his parents since last night – surely that must be him! Frodo stood up and, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, scanned his surroundings for the familiar forms of his father and mother.

He couldn't see anything…but wait! There _was_ something. There on the bank, half hidden under the roots of a gigantic willow tree, something was billowing in the wind. Something blue – as blue as his mother's favorite dress. Heart giving a great leap (His parents were back!) Frodo started running down the lawn towards the Brandywine River.

* * *

Rorimac scrubbed a hand over his eyes wearily. "Sara." He said, waving his son over. "If we don't find anything in the next ten minutes I think we're going to have to call it a morning and head back to the Hall for some lunch. We've missed second breakfast and elevensies already. Go and tell Bilbo's crew, would you?"

"Right, Da." Saradoc said and turned, splashing his way back into the river and cupping his hands around his mouth. "HALLOO!" He yelled, making good use of the large Goold lungs. "Bilbo – give it about ten more minutes and then head back to the Hall. We can pick the search up again after lunch."

On the opposite bank, Bilbo sighed. He hated the slightest delay – missing lunch never seriously hurt anyone – but he understood where Rory and Sara were coming from. "You heard him, lads." He said to his helpers. "Let's put out a last good effort and then we'll – "

He was cut off as a thin, wailing cry of distress pierced through the air like a javelin. "What was _that_?" Saradoc said, looking around nervously and noting their growing proximity to the Old Forest. "Some sort of animal?"

"That was no animal." Bilbo said to himself, listening hard and hearing it again, torn apart somewhat by the wind but still distinctly the cry of someone in pain. No, not just someone – a child. Some before-untapped parental instinct rose within Bilbo in that moment and he suddenly knew, just _knew_ that that horrible scream came from Frodo. He couldn't have explained how – Frodo was supposed to be in his room – he couldn't explain this conviction at all, he just knew.

Heart leaping into his mouth, Bilbo turned and charged back up the river, running faster than he had done up the tunnel away from Smaug's fire so many years ago. There was more that his life at stake here. He _had_ to get to Frodo.

"I say – Bilbo!" Rory shouted. "Where are you going?"

"Frodo!" Bilbo yelled back, not changing his pace. Why was it taking so long? They hadn't gone _that_ far downstream – barely a mile. Surely he wasn't that out of shape! So why was it taking a lifetime for him to run back?

Rorimac had needed no other explanation and quickly jumped onto the makeshift ferry. "Pull me over, quick!" He shouted to the hobbits on the other side, snagging Saradoc out of the water as his ride shot past. Gaining the other bank, he took off after the retreating form of Bilbo Baggins, followed closely behind by his son.

"Da, what is it?" Merimac yelled as his father and brother ran off.

"Frodo." Rorimac called back.

"D'you think he's found Prim?"

Sweet sunshine! "I hope not." Rory shouted and continued his unexpected sprint upriver, back towards Brandy Hall.

* * *

Bilbo reached the scene first. He dashed onto the lower lawn and skidded to a stop, looking around frantically for his nephew and seeing nothing. His hand clenched around the frayed and still damp hair ribbons in his pocket as his panic and sense of urgency grew. He could hear the sound of Frodo crying – deep, gut wrenching sobs that spoke of pure anguish - but he couldn't see him. Following the sound to the old willow, Bilbo found the scene that would forever be burnt into his memory – the scene that he had prayed so hard to be spared from seeing.

Primula Brandybuck-Baggins lay still and cold, face whiter than milk and matted curls floating gracefully on the lapping water. Her favorite blue dress that he had tied the sash on only the night previous was torn and muddied – the layers of lace petticoats doubtlessly weighing her down until she drowned and her body came to rest beneath the gnarled roots of the willow. Her eyes were closed and her features looked serene – like some dreadful mockery of peaceful sleep. But by far the worst was the pale, lifeless hand that was clutched desperately in the trembling grip of her only son.

Frodo was bent over, shaking with his tears as he rocked back and forth, begging his mother to wake up. His pleas were almost undistinguishable from the agonized sobs that tore from his chest like the whimpers of a small, wounded animal. Bilbo froze for a moment, uncertain what to do in the face of this terrible scene, before he cautiously went down the steep bank to where Frodo crouched with his mother's corpse. Carefully, to avoid knocking both his nephew and himself into the river, Bilbo reached out and took Frodo into his arms. At first Frodo didn't respond, continuing to clasp Primula's cold hand, murmuring over and over "Mummy – wake up. Please wake up. You've _got_ to wake up. Mummy, please!"

"Oh, Frodo." Bilbo said, feeling as though his heart was shattering into a million tiny fragments. "Come, Frodo, there's nothing you can do." He gently tried to pry the childish fingers away from Primula's hand, but Frodo suddenly lashed out, letting out another blood-curdling scream.

"NOOO! No, don't take her away! You can't take her away! She'll wake up – she's got to!" He would have beat his fists against Bilbo's chest if both his hands had not already been engaged in holding on to his mother. Bilbo stopped tugging and put his arm back around Frodo, hoping that maybe the warm comfort would help draw him back to the real world.

Saradoc and Rorimac now arrived on the scene, puffing and blowing.

"Oh _no_," Rory moaned. "Prim, no!" He half lurched, half slid his way down the bank to where Bilbo and Frodo sat beside his little sister's pitiful body. He closed his eyes in pain and sank to his knees – unwilling to believe it, but unable to deny the evidence of his own eyes. Saradoc followed at a slower pace and placed a comforting hand on his father's shoulder. A few tears trickled down Rorimac's face and he shivered, swallowing hard. "We've got to get her out of the river." He said, barely controlling the quaver in his voice. "Saradoc – take Frodo back to the house while Bilbo and I deal with, with P-Prim." He voice broke on the name and he took a shuddering breath.

Saradoc came over to Bilbo and took hold of Frodo's arm. "C'mon, cousin." He said as gently as he could. "Let's get you back to the house – and maybe get some hot cocoa in you, yeah?"

"No!" Frodo moaned, once again breaking his muttered mantra to protest. "No – I'm not gonna…I can't leave her!" He actually let go of Primula's hand to shove both Saradoc away and try to struggle out of Bilbo's grasp. But Bilbo was having none of it and only tightened his grip, determined not to let a misstep send Frodo into the river like his parents. He looked at Saradoc.

"You help your father. I'll see to Frodo." And without another word he lifted the little hobbit, despite Frodo's struggles, and determinedly climbed his way back up the bank and through the lawn to the Hall.

By the time they reached the door, Frodo had tired himself out and sunk into an exhausted stupor, making no protest when Bilbo went into the Hall and made as straight a course as possible back to his room.


	5. Rorimac Brandybuck

Vadella was still dozing in oblivion when Bilbo kicked open the door and strode in. There was a magnificent crash as the aged hobbitess started awake and dropped her already slipping teacup which cracked and shattered into at least ten pieces.

"Mr. Baggins! Stars above – you startled me!" She laid a hand over her heart and took three deep, soothing breaths. "Was there something you were wanting? Frodo's around here somewhere and – FRODO!" She had finally caught sight of the bundle in Bilbo's arms. "What were you thinking, young hobbit – sneaking off like that?"

"Ms. Goold." Bilbo said, urgently cutting her off in a soft, stern tone. "My nephew has just had a traumatic experience. I would thank you to keep your scoldings to a minimum - what he needs most now is rest. If you want to make yourself useful, fetch us some tea from the kitchen."

Vadella swelled with indignation, rather like a lace-festooned toad, and got to her feet with a flounce that belied her age. "Well I never!" She spluttered, nostrils flaring as she spoke. "I'm not your maidservant, Mr. Baggins, nor do you have the right to send me on your little errands. This isn't Hobbiton – this is Brandy Hall."

Distracted with trying to extricate himself from Frodo's limp yet clingy grasp, Bilbo could do little to express his disgust at her attitude save shooting her the coldest glare he could muster up (the kind usually reserved for the back of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins) "There is the door, madam, I trust you know how to use it." He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard said door slam behind her and turned his attention back to where it belonged: Frodo.

His nephew was blinking in exhaustion, staring straight ahead without comprehending much of anything – the sights he had taken in today simply being too much for his young mind. _"Thank the Valar!"_ Bilbo thought to himself as he loosened the buttons on the muddy waistcoat. _"The last thing he needs is to dwell overmuch on…on the event."_ Bilbo tried to follow that principle himself – remembering that, unlike at the deaths of his own beloved father and mother (occurring when he was thirty-nine and forty-five, respectively) or at the death of Thorin Oakenshield, he had a responsibility now: a responsibility that would not allow him the luxury of breaking down and curling up inside a blanket just yet. He had to first see that Frodo was settled and as comfortable as the situation would allow. "Are you still awake, Frodo-lad?"

Frodo sniffed and rubbed at his eyes with one grimy fist, nodding jerkily. Bilbo patted his shoulder and eased him out of his muddy vest. "Let's just get you comfy, shall we?"

There was another nod and a shaky sigh that Bilbo took to be a stifled sob. He got Frodo tucked into the bed before going over and inspecting Vadella's abandoned teapot critically. "Hmph…nearly as cold as stone." Bilbo muttered, disgruntled. "We'll just have to do something about that, won't we?" He ignored the little voice in his head – the one that sounded an awful lot like a certain wizard – saying: _'obviously, Bilbo, who else is going to do something about it…Earendil himself?'_

Pouring out some of the lukewarm tea into the nearly empty sugar bowl (sometimes one just had to improvise, and Vadella had broken the teacup) and adding enough milk to fill the Brandywine (no, no, _don't_ think of that!) Bilbo cautiously took the sugar tongs up and somehow managed to more-or-less securely clamp the filled bowl within them and suspended it over the glowing coals to reheat. He felt that he should really be commended for his ingenious idea, especially when he saw the creamy tea begin to steam.

Hurriedly pulling it out of the fire and noting that he probably should have added the milk after he heated it, Bilbo took the improvised teacup full of warm, sweet liquid over to an increasingly heavy-lidded Frodo.

"Here you are, Frodo-lad." He said, holding out the hot drink. "Bottoms up."

Despite the fact that Frodo was twelve years old and perfectly capable of feeding himself (though he did occasionally forget to use his knife rather than his fingers to push peas onto his fork) Bilbo held onto the cup and gave Frodo the drink himself. The china was rather hot – he didn't want to risk Frodo burning himself on top of everything else.

Thankfully, the hot tea did its work and Frodo finally succumbed to the persistent pull of slumber. Bilbo sat back on the edge of the bed and set the empty sugar bowl aside, steadying his nephew's face carefully so as to catch any sign of distress.

Oh how that face had changed since yesterday! Yesterday Frodo had been rosy and happy – always ready with a smile or a laugh, just like his mother and father. The tells of a happy, loving home were written all over his countenance. But now…now that same beloved face was pale and wan, eyes red and puffy, skin still stained with the tracks of bitter tears. Just as before Frodo's face had spoken of great joy – now it said naught but great sorrow and suffering.

Bilbo scrubbed a weary hand over his face as his own tears finally began to fall silently. _"Oh, cousin."_ Bilbo thought quietly. _"I hope you can't see your son now because if you can…I fear it will break your heart."_

* * *

Back at the Brandywine, Saradoc was sorrowfully overseeing the hobbits that were disentangling Primula from the roots of the willow. Rorimac stood off to one side, fighting a losing battle against the tears that streamed down his face as he tried to come to terms with this horrible, horrible tragedy. His little sister – his beautiful, laughing little sister was gone forever.

The sharp, agonising pain of loss was long gone by now – replaced by the dull, deadening ache of mourning. She would never come home to the Hall again, never kiss him playfully on the cheek again, never even breath the sweet Buckland air again.

Merimac and Dinadoc came up the bank, carefully accepting the limp body of Primula from the hobbits below. Rorimac shook himself sternly and stepped forward, holding out his arms. "Give her to me." He said to his son and cousin. "I will bear her back to the Hall – you carry Drogo."


	6. Waiting is the Hardest Part

When Bilbo woke, it was late in the afternoon, the light dimming as the sun sank ever nearer to the western horizon. He sat up with a soft groan, gingerly rolling his now very stiff neck. _"Contrary to popular belief, Bilbo, you're not as young as you once were."_ He thought to himself as he massaged the abused muscles with one hand.

However, a whimper from Frodo soon made Bilbo abandon all thoughts of _his _aches and pains. He looked intently at his nephew who was becoming restless, brow creased even as he slept. Gently, Bilbo reached out a tender hand and tried to smooth away those creases from Frodo's young face. It seemed to work, for at Bilbo's touch Frodo quieted and whatever foul thing that had invaded his dreams retreated.

As soon as Bilbo was certain that Frodo was deeply – and peacefully – asleep once more, he got to his feet and quietly slipped out of the room, making for the kitchens to scare up a dinner tray. He was quite certain that Frodo would not want to face the other inhabitants of Brandy Hall just yet.

* * *

When he returned to the suite, he found that Frodo was stirring. Bilbo quietly sat the tray on the fireside table and approached the bed, watching his nephew to make sure that he was indeed waking, not merely straying into another bad dream. Frodo's eyes fluttered open and he sat up, evidently confused as to where he was.

"Hello, Frodo-lad." Bilbo said in a kindly tone.

Frodo jumped at Bilbo's voice. Then, seeing who it was, he relaxed, falling back onto the pillows. "Hello, Uncle Bilbo." He said in a dull voice, looking around him. He felt sad – why did he feel so sad?

"How are you feeling?" Bilbo asked, wondering if Frodo remembered what had happened that morning.

"No, I – _Mummy._" Realisation dawned on Frodo and he crumpled, letting out a moan and burying his face in the covers. Bilbo gathered the shaking form into an embrace and buried his own face in Frodo's dark curls.

"Shhh, hush now, lad." He murmured. "It'll be all right."

Frodo snuggled into Bilbo's arms, comforted by the warmth and by the rumble of Bilbo's voice in the older hobbit's chest. He didn't cry – he felt wrung out and exhausted and there was a lump in his throat that would not go away no matter how many times he swallowed.

When Bilbo felt the shudders subside, he gave Frodo one last squeeze and then released him. He stood up and removed the cover from the bowl of hot stew. "I've brought us some dinner, Frodo."

"I'm not hungry."

Trying to hide his alarm at this very un-Frodo-like statement, Bilbo added some crackers to the stew and spoke firmly. "Hungry or no, you need to eat something."

Frodo sighed and reluctantly nodded, sliding out of bed and following Bilbo over to the table.

* * *

For one who said he wasn't hungry – Frodo certainly managed to demolish an entire (large) bowl of stew and crackers _and_ to absently finish the apple pudding. And while he didn't show his usual interest in the food – eating more or less automatically – Bilbo was relieved to see that he was getting something down. Frodo drank some juice gratefully and pushed the tray away, leaving behind at least three lemon biscuits. He rubbed his eyes and slumped back in his chair, clearly still emotionally and mentally exhausted. Bilbo smiled.

"Why don't you just relax for a while, Frodo-lad, hmm? I'll take the dirty dishes down to the kitchens and then we can read a book or something."

"Okay, Uncle Bilbo." Frodo slid down off his chair and made for the bed again, picking up one of his toys – a wooden seagull – as he went. Bilbo took the now-nearly-empty tray and left the room, munching on one of the leftover biscuits as he went.

* * *

Rory had long since supported his father to see Primula's body, stayed with the old hobbit while he grieved, and then escorted Gorbadoc back to his room. Now Rory sat with Saradoc and Merimac, as well as Amaranth and a few of the other older hobbitesses of the Hall as they planned the funeral. It had to be done quickly – the sooner the better. Drogo and Primula, already battered and bruised by the currents of the river, would soon begin to smell.

"They'll need to be buried together, of course." Menegilda was saying in agreement with some comment of Amaranth about details. "I'm certain we can find room in the Brandybuck Plot for both of them – won't we, Rory?"

All this talk of burial plots and funerals was extremely wearing. Rory scrubbed a hand over his face. "I'm sure we can, Gilda."

"And we must cancel the Harvest Feast – 'twouldn't be proper to hold such a boisterous affair now that this has happened." Amaranth dabbed daintily at her plump cheek with a handkerchief.

"Yes – thank you, Amaranth." Rory sighed. "The decision has already been made."

"Excellent." Amaranth sniffed and stood with a swish of skirts. "When you need my help working out the rest of the details…I'll be in the west parlor with Vadella."

She swept out of the room, leaving Rorimac, Menegilda, Saradoc, and Merimac behind in her wake.

"Well, I'm glad we know who Eru's gift to hobbitkind is." Merimac muttered, slouching down in his seat like a teen and scowling (encounters with Aunt Amaranth always left him out of temper).

"Merimac." Menegilda said in warning – even though she and the other two secretly agreed.

* * *

"Bilbo?" Rorimac caught up with the older hobbit in the corridor. "May I just express my sorrow yet again at the death of your cousin?" He felt rather guilty – it had been their river that had spelled the end of Drogo Baggins. Thankfully – Bilbo seemed to hold no grudge.

"My thanks, Rorimac." Bilbo replied. "And I offer my condolences for the loss of your sister." He looked away respectfully as Rory bowed his head in grief, waiting the appropriate number of minutes before going on. "Was there something you needed my help with?"

Rory shook his head. "No, not at all. I merely wish to inform you that the funeral for Drogo and…my sister will be held tomorrow afternoon at three, should you decide to attend."

Bilbo felt a pinprick of annoyance. _"Of course I'm going to attend,"_ He thought. _"Drogo is my cousin." _But he said nothing, not wanting to open an unnecessary can of worms, and continued his way down the passage. He returned to Frodo's room with a sinking heart and a flustered mind. His initial reaction had been that of course he would attend the funeral – but that was before Frodo's tearstained face had popped into his mind. He remembered the bitter way the child had sobbed when Primula's body was found, remembered also that Frodo had been horribly subdued and silent ever since – not shedding another tear and swallowing back any that welled up. Perhaps it would not be right to make Frodo go and watch his parents' corpses being buried, to say nothing of the funeral dinner afterwards with all of the relations patting his head and making sympathetic, unhelpful comments. And yet, perhaps it would give the young hobbit closure – something to ground him in this tumultuous time. Bilbo didn't know what to do.

He found Frodo still huddled up with a book propped on his lap, although he was now sitting in Vadella's abandoned chair by the fireplace and was watching the dancing flames more than concentrating on reading his book. He appeared to be deep in thought and Bilbo, pulling over a stool and sitting down opposite, could see tears sitting unfallen in Frodo's brown eyes.

"Frodo-lad." Bilbo said, deciding to talk to Frodo about the burial and get it over with. "Frodo, we're going to have the funeral for your parents tomorrow." He didn't miss the way Frodo flinched at the words 'funeral' and 'parents' and hoped that he was doing the right thing by asking. "Will you be all right?"

"I'm fine, Uncle Bilbo." Frodo said in a dreary tone. "Don't worry about me."

Bilbo sighed – that was not the answer he had hoped for, although even he wasn't entirely certain what reaction he had expected – but decided not to press the issue just now. He looked at the book in Frodo's lap and saw that it was one of his own – full of big words and few pictures. He was surprised that Frodo had chosen this one, as it was a difficult read, but figured that maybe the tome was more for a form of unusual comfort than really for reading. He reached out and gently took it from Frodo. "Would you like me to read to you?" He asked. His nephew wasn't the only one who needed comforting.

Frodo nodded and Bilbo began to read: _"The Tale of Beren Camlost and Luthien Tinuviel…"_

As Bilbo's voice went on, weaving the story of the man and elfmaid's quest for the Silmaril, Frodo relaxed and almost let his face drop into a small smile. He loved listening to Bilbo tell tales of the fantastical Elder Days. At length, Frodo's head dropped back against the chair and he drifted into a light sleep. Noticing this, Bilbo set the book and looked at the sleeping child. What would happen to Frodo now? Bilbo sighed, he would love to take Frodo and raise him himself, but he knew that no one would let him. He was regarded as an old bachelor, rather cracked, all together unsuited to raise a child. He had better let the Brandybucks sort things out. He was not the sort of hobbit that Frodo needed.


	7. Burying One's Grief

The next afternoon at the funeral, Frodo sat dry eyed as his parent's bodies were lowered into their graves. Bilbo was concerned (between his own sniffs into his handkerchief). It wasn't healthy to bottle feelings like that away. Frodo seemed to have shut down – acting automatically, yet being detached from what was happening around him. Bilbo even had to lead him over to drop the first handful of earth onto the grave.

The blank attitude continued as condolences began to pour in.

"Frodo, I am _so_ sorry about your parents." Jade Boffin came over and patted Frodo's head while blinking around her own streaming eyes (Drogo and Primula had been favorite neighbors of hers).

Next was Curry Smallfoot, Primula's second cousin by marriage. "I am sorry to both of you." He said, wringing Bilbo's hand before bending down in front of Frodo and placing what he clearly felt was the hand of parental concern on the young hobbit's shoulder. "My, but you're a brave lad. Not even shedding a tear!" He managed to get a pat in before Frodo shrugged the intruding hand off and then Curry wandered into the Hall for the funeral dinner.

After a long line of such sympathizers, Frodo and Bilbo finally were able to go in to the Hall themselves. But even there, people continued to make awkward remarks. The first thing to cause such a comment was Frodo's appetite, or lack thereof.

"My goodness, lad, that's barely enough to satisfy a sparrow."

"Tut, tut…no need to starve yourself in grief. Eat up – it'll make you feel better."

"When _my_ Aunt Daffy died…"

To their credit, everyone was trying to be kind, but a tragedy of this was rather rare among hobbits, so no one really knew how to act when one did occur. Deaths happened, of course, but they were usually among the old and infirm and so left time to prepare oneself for. Death of children was rare, although not unheard of, but people knew more or less how to deal with grieving parents – but something like this had not happened for more generations than most hobbits could remember. Certainly not since the Fell Winter!

It was unusual, but not unheard of to lose one parent, but rarely did anyone lose both, and certainly not at such a young age. So no one knew how to deal with a grief-stricken child who had just lost both parents and this came out as they attempted to express their concern through nit-picking and excessive mother-henning.

"Come on, Frodo. You don't want to make yourself ill. Just some more of that cheese."

Bilbo could see that Frodo was being metaphorically smothered by these comments, so he tried to shield him as much as possible – but eventually, Frodo just took advantage of Vadella's tear-stricken monologue to slip away from the table. As soon as he could get away from Rorimac's rather formidable sister-in-law, Bilbo did the same.

He found Frodo in the library – curled up on a window seat, fast asleep. Carefully, Bilbo picked up his nephew and carried him back to the late Primula and Drogo Baggins' suite.

"Bilbo?"

Bilbo jumped – he had thought that Frodo was still in dreamland. "What is it, lad?" He asked as gently as he could, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside Frodo.

Frodo swallowed a lump in his throat. ""You've told me where elves and men go when they…when they d-die. D'you think there is a place like that for hobbits?"

Bilbo was both surprised and heartbroken to hear a question like that being contemplated by one so young. Perhaps he shouldn't have been – Frodo _was_ quite intelligent for a hobbit and his parents had seen to it that he was well educated – but still…twelve years old and already contemplating life after death! How to answer?

"I think there is, Frodo." Bilbo said slowly, thinking each word through before he spoke it. "The Creator the elves sometimes speak of, Eru, wouldn't have created us just to live and then die, vanishing forever. I believe he has created somewhere wonderful for hobbits."

"Do you think Mummy and Daddy are there now?"

"I'm sure of it, Frodo."

"What's going to happen to me now?" Frodo's lips were beginning to tremble. He looked so small, sitting there on the bed.

Bilbo's heart broke all over again, doubly so when he realized he had no answer to that question. "Just rest now, Frodo-lad. We'll make sure you're properly looked after."

Frodo nodded, looking drowsy again. Bilbo realized that grief had left its grim mark on the small hobbit. If Bilbo felt exhausted and wrung out himself, he couldn't imagine what Frodo must be going through.

Frodo reached out and took hold of Bilbo's hand. "Will you tell me a story?"

Bilbo began to stoke that same hand soothingly and to speak in a soft, lilting voice. "_Thus began the Song of Illutavar and so thus began all of Arda…"_

Bilbo thought that his tale had lured Frodo to sleep this time, so he was surprised when a small voice asked. "What did the trees look like?"

"What trees, Frodo?"

"The trees of silver and gold."

"Well, they shone like the Sun and Moon. As a matter of fact, the Sun and Moon were fashioned from those trees."

"Oh." Frodo settled back in bed. Bilbo went on with his tale until his nephew was asleep for good. Then he released the hand that Frodo immediately tucked under his chin and quietly left the room to find Rorimac. A choice must be made about what to do with Frodo Baggins and it had to be made soon.


	8. Setting the Stage

**Author's Note: **Okay, so this is a slightly shorter chapter than the rest - but it is full of stuff that needs to be said before I can move on and none of it really fits with the stuff that will come after. In other words: it sets up the second part of this fic. Lots of Brandybucks in this chapter! :D

* * *

"Rorimac." Menegilda clasped her husband's hand under the table in a comforting manner. "It's time for the speech. Will you be all right?"

Rory squeezed her hand. "I believe so, my dear." He took a fortifying drink of wine and rose to his feet. "We are here to commemorate the lives of two beloved individuals: my sister Primula and her husband, Drogo Baggins…"

Afterwards, Rory wasn't certain just how he made it through the speech. At several points he had to stop and regain his composure as he thought of his laughing younger sister – her light snuffed out by the swirling waters of the Brandywine. The speech was rather cathartic, allowing him to work through the grief that threatened to crush him. Rory knew that he couldn't afford to wallow forever. Gorbadoc was getting older and feebler (the death of his favorite daughter taking a toll on him, just as Rory had feared) and the leadership of the Hall would soon fall solely to Rory himself. And there was the problem of Primula's son, Frodo, to consider. What was to be done about him?

* * *

"Bilbo, thank you for meeting with me." Rorimac stood from behind his desk and shook the older hobbit's hand gratefully. "I'm sorry for pulling you away from your cousin. Is he doing all right?"

"As well as can be expected, given the situation. He's sleeping just now." Bilbo said. "Hopefully our business here can be concluded swiftly."

"Of course, of course." Rory took the no-so-subtle hint and sat back down. "I have called you here to discuss the disclosure of Drogo Baggins' estate. Being his family Head, I'm certain that you will know more about his business than I would."

Bilbo nodded. "Most likely – though I know none of the particulars. I know that Drogo owned some property in the Southfarthing – shares in the Hornblower family business, in fact. But his primary source of income was the woodworking he did."

"Yes – he gave my father an excellent pipeweed box as a birthday present last year." Rory said. "He carved ornaments?"

"Mmmhmm. Anything that took his fancy. It was more of a hobby than a vital job, you see. Primula also did fine needlework, but I expect you already knew that."

Rory cracked a thin smile. "I did indeed. Mother was ever so pleased that her tussles to get Prim to pay attention long enough to sew a straight seam paid off." He shifted some papers on his desk.

"Yes, well, that is all I can tell you." Bilbo said regretfully. "What is to be done with the estate – the house, land, and money?" He knew that he would have to work with the Brandybucks on this one. Primula _was_ the daughter of Master Gorbadoc Broadbelt, after all.

"Hmmm." Rorimac scratched his chin with a quill thoughtfully. Bilbo kindly refrained from mentioning the black streak of ink the goose feather left behind – figuring that Rory had the excuse of being rather distracted. "I remember Prim and Drogo making up a will whenever they realized that she would carry Frodo to term, but I don't remember if it was filed at Michel Delving or if they kept it at their house with their wedding certificate.

Bilbo did have the answer for that one. "Drogo took all of their papers down last year. Said that old Whitfoot would probably keep them safer then they would be sitting around that hole of theirs. This will would have gone the same way, then."

Rory made a note on the back of his hand and flapped said appendage in the air to dry the ink. "I'll dispatch my lad, Merimac tonight, then." He said, still vigorously waving his hand back and forth. "I need him to deliver some of documents for me anyways – Saradoc's request for a marriage certificate, for one – if you want, Mac can go and be back by the day after tomorrow."

"Thank you." Bilbo said, rather relieved that he would not have to make the ride out to Michel Delving himself. "I should appreciate it if he would."

* * *

"Go straight there and straight back, Mac." Rory instructed his younger son, making certain that the saddlebag filled with documents was secured to the saddle. "No idling in the taverns or stopping overlong on the road."

"No worries on my account, Da." Merimac said, swinging up onto his favorite pony and settling into the saddle. "I'll go as quickly as Yarrow can manage."

"See to it that you do. It is imperative that we settle the matter of your aunt and uncle's estate as quickly as possible – preferably before Saradoc is to marry."

Merimac shifted slightly – no one had mentioned Saradoc's pending marriage to Esmerelda Took in the ensuing chaos after the accident. He had half-supposed that the occasion would be postponed until further notice. Merimac shrugged – oh well, 'twas no business of his at this point. Aunt Amaranth would doubtless put up all of the fuss that was needed, anyways.


	9. The Dam Breaks

It was late, the fire reduced to glowing coals and the candle burning low on the bedside table. Bilbo was just getting Frodo settled into bed – loath to leave the young, newly orphaned hobbit alone until he was asleep. He felt wrung-out and tired and wanted nothing so much as to huddle up in his own armchair at Bag End with a comforting pipe of tobacco. But he couldn't – he had Frodo to see to.

The cold within him was helped a bit by the cosy, dim light of the bedroom and he kept himself busy by fussing with the coverlet – making sure Frodo was tucked in snug and comfortable. "What would you like me to read tonight, Frodo?" Bilbo tried to keep his voice optimistic and compassionate.

"Nothing – I'm just tired." Frodo turned his face into the pillow and heaved a shaky sigh. "Will you stay with me?"

Bilbo sighed – resigning himself to another night in a chair – and sat down. "I'm not leaving, lad. Just go to sleep."

* * *

Bilbo awoke in the middle of the night to the whimpers coming from Frodo's bed. Getting out of his chair, he went to check on his nephew. Frodo seemed to be having a nightmare and was twisted up in the bedclothes. "No, no! Mama! Papa, where are you?" Frodo sat straight up in bed and screamed. "NO!"

"Shhhh, Frodo-lad. I'm here." Bilbo gathered the young hobbit into his arms as he began to sob.

"They're really dead, aren't they?" Frodo's entire frame was trembling as he said this. "I'll never see them again." He clung tightly to Bilbo and buried his face into the older hobbit's waistcoat.

Bilbo reflected that, just when he thought his heart couldn't break into any more pieces, something happened to grind the fragments further into dust. But how he felt wasn't important right now; he had a distraught child to comfort. "Frodo you mustn't say that." He said, stroking a soothing pattern up and down Frodo's heaving back. "I can't say for certain where we hobbits go after life on this plane has ended – but wherever we go, I know you will see your parents again some day."

"When I die, I suppose." Frodo mumbled into Bilbo's chest, prompting another brutal yank at the heartstrings.

"Yes, but don't you go and die on me just yet. You have a whole life ahead of you, Frodo." Bilbo was beginning to get nervous at the way this conversation was going. Surely Frodo couldn't be thinking what he feared!

Frodo sounded as though he were twenty years older as he spoke. "I don't see why, I'm all alone. I want Mama and Papa back, I'm just afraid of death"

Now Bilbo was really scared. He pulled Frodo away from him and grasped the small shoulders firmly, giving Frodo a small shake. "You listen to me, Frodo Baggins. Don't ever think something like that again! To die isn't frightening – what's worse is never to live. You must make your parents proud of you. They love you very much, Frodo, and love is something that never ends. Not even with death."

Tears rolled down Frodo's face and he snuffled miserably. "I'm sorry, Bilbo!" He cried, launching himself at his cousin again. "I didn't mean to say that. I don't really mean it, _honest_!" He began to sob again.

Bilbo made soothing noises and patted Frodo's back gently. "Quiet, Frodo. Just have a good cry and let it all out. I forgive you. Grief makes us say silly things sometimes just as anger does." He held his nephew close until Frodo's shuddering breaths died down and he felt the child go limp in sleep again. Bilbo gently laid Frodo back down on the bed and tucked him in, abandoning his chair in favor of stretching out beside Frodo in an effort to keep the night terrors away. He pressed a kiss against Frodo's sweaty, tousled curls and whispered: "I love you."

* * *

The next morning, Bilbo would almost have believed that the whole episode of last night was a dream if it were not for the blotchy tearstains on Frodo's sleeping face. He got to his feet – smoothing down his waistcoat and noting with some unhappiness the unseemly creases on the brocaided royal blue silk. (He hadn't had a black waistcoat, so had gone with the darkest, most somber colour he had with him to wear to the funeral yesterday.)

"Good morning, Uncle Bilbo. Did you stay here all night?" Frodo sat up and rubbed his doubtlessly itchy eyes with a yawn.

Bilbo ran a hand through his hair, wincing as he encountered a few tangles. "Of course I did – I promised, didn't I?" He peered closely at his nephew as the younger hobbit stretched and made ready to climb out of bed. _"It could be my imagination, but I believe he looks a little less dull than yesterday."_ He thought to himself. In order to test this theory out, Bilbo put on a smile and said. "Well, how about some breakfast?"

He half-expected Frodo to refuse, like he had yesterday, but was relieved when the young hobbit nodded and replied: "That sounds great! I'm actually rather hungry today."

Breathing a sigh of relief at that reply (Frodo with a lack of appetite was always a case for the deepest of concern) Bilbo attempted to make his hair and creased waistcoat presentable and headed down to the dining hall to bring back some food. He didn't want Frodo to be set back by the awkward comments and stares that would undoubtedly come if the young orphan had to go out and eat with the others.

When he returned, Frodo had gotten dressed and was sitting on the edge of the bed. He sniffed appreciatively as Bilbo walked in. "Bacon today?"

"Indeed – and some ham, if you feel like some variety." Bilbo set the try down and cracked open his soft-boiled egg with a spoon. "Dig in."


	10. Time Moves Forward

**Author's Note: **So here it is at last...the final chapter of this story. There will be a sequel called _Stranded in the Master's__ Hall_ that will continue the adventures of the Baggins'. I hope this tale has been as enjoyable to read as it was to write.

* * *

"Drogo's attachment to you must have been strong indeed, Bilbo, for him to name you as one of the guardians for their son." Rorimac truly was surprised. Drogo had always seemed rather a solid, sensible sort of fellow – unadventurous even by hobbit standards and quite content to enjoy the quests through the contents of his books. Why he tolerated the eccentric Bilbo Baggins, Rory would never know – though he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the elder hobbit's rather impressive estate.

Bilbo smiled sadly at Rory's comment. "Drogo's always been closer to me than any of my other cousins. They all seem to think me rather cracked."

_"They're not the only ones."_ Rory thought to himself. He felt sorry for Bilbo, of course, and tolerated the presence of the older hobbit without too much burden, but he had heard the old Baggins prattling on to Frodo the other day about valour (which was all very well and good – if a bit overrated) and 'ill tar' and how the moon was a tree instead of a great, white face. Imagine!

With a resigned sigh, Bilbo guessed what was on Rory's mind. One of these days he would learn to keep his mouth shut. Bringing up his supposed (and completely over-embellished) mental state never did him any favors.

"So, what's do be done with the lad?" Rory asked, bringing Bilbo abruptly back to earth.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Frodo – what's to be done with Frodo? Gilda will doubtless want to keep him here, though we wouldn't protest if you have other ideas." Rory knew that if the matter was pressed Bilbo, as Baggins Family Head, had legal rights to Frodo that would override even Primula and Drogo's will and he had little wish to prolong this miserable business with a lengthy Mayoral appeal. Consequently, Rory was infinitely relieved when Bilbo chuckled.

"No, no." The Baggins Family Head was quick to reassure. "I think that it would be best if Frodo were to remain here, much as I would love to have him around. I would visit whenever I could, of course, but I can't give him the childhood he deserves. I have nothing to offer the lad that couldn't be provided right here at Brandy Hall – and I see no need to uproot him yet again."

"Quite right." Rorimac cleared his throat awkwardly. "If you are agreeable to it, then Frodo will be made a ward of the Hall. He will receive and education and prepared for his coming of age and inheriting of Drogo's estate."

* * *

"The mail is here, Frodo." Bilbo said, flopping down in the armchair and sorting through the letters – four sympathy notes and one condolence letter – before opening the envelope on the bottom that was postmarked Hobbiton. He scanned through it, heart sinking as he did so.

It was from one of his contacts in Hobbiton – one of the hobbits who he had a hand in business with – informing him that his presence was needed urgently for a slight legal matter that had arisen. Bilbo had, upon first reading the letter, hoped that he could conduct this business from afar, but as he read on it quickly became evident that he would have to look into it personally – even if it did mean leaving Brandy Hall for a while.

He glanced over at Frodo who was happily working on a puzzle. Yes. He might be able to afford to leave, much as he was loath to. Frodo had been doing so much better these past two weeks – smiling more and more as the days past and thankfully not suffering from troubled sleep.

* * *

"Are you certain, Bilbo?" Rory asked the older hobbit.

"Quite. It may take a fortnight and requires my personal attention." Bilbo resisted a huff of annoyance with great difficulty. "If it were not for that, I would stay on with Frodo until the month is out, at least. But I must get back to Bag End."

Rory nodded. "Then go. I can assure you that Frodo will be fine here. We will see to it that he isn't left alone."

"Thank you, Rorimac."

Early the next morning, Bilbo secured his pack onto the back of the pony Saradoc had so graciously loaned him. Frodo tugged at his coat sleeve.

"You will come back, Uncle Bilbo?" He asked – feeling that Bilbo was the one link with his parents now.

Bilbo smiled and held Frodo close in a smothering hug. "Of course I will, Frodo-lad. You couldn't get rid of me if I tried; bad penny is my middle name."

Frodo nodded, face pressed against Bilbo's waistcoat buttons, and tried to smile when Bilbo held him out at arm's length for a moment before the older hobbit released him and swung up on his pony. "You go inside now, Frodo. Goodbye."

"Bye, Uncle."

* * *

"This will be your room, Frodo." Crocus, one of the older Brandybuck tweenagers, said – pushing open and door and guiding the younger hobbit inside. "You'll be sharing with Colidoc and Cormac once their family gets back from Tuckburough, but for now the room is yours. I trust you can take charge of unpacking your things yourself?"

"Sure." Frodo set his small bag down on the single bed (apparently Colidoc and Cormac favored bunk beds, for some bizarre reason Frodo could not fathom) and clambered up to sit down as Crocus made a hasty retreat. She had no desire to spend any more time in the presence of Frodo Baggins than absolutely necessary. It was unnerving being around him – considering recent events – and the last thing she wanted was a sniveling child on her hands. She wouldn't know what to do if that started and was trying to avoid such awkwardness at all costs.

Frodo took little notice of her departure; too busy taking stock of his new surroundings. The room was small and sparsely furnished – but practical. He felt out of place and like an intruder as he looked at the clutter the other two lads had left here and there through the room. He missed the familiarity of his parents' suite already, missed what he felt was the last link with them, missed seeing _their_ belongings strewn about as if they had just popped out for tea and biscuits.

With a shake, he hopped off the bed and opened his bag, dumping the clothes and toys therein out on the bed and arranging them into semi-neat, yet disorganized stacks. He was determined to not let the move bother him. He'd show everyone that he was a brave lad, just like his father had always said!

The End


End file.
